Alan Jacobson - False accusations

“No.”

“No? Oh, that’s right. You said that your wife’s set of keys to your car were missing.”

“That’s correct. Stolen, by the defendant.”

“That’s a lie!” Harding was standing, her face beet red, her flowing auburn locks tousled. “You’re lying. I didn’t steal the keys or your car-”

“Counselor, get your client under control immediately or I’ll have her removed.”

Warwick had already been struggling with her, pushing down on her shoulders, trying to make her sit, his face squarely in front of hers, locking on her eyes. As Harding took her seat, her chest still heaving with anger, the bailiff who was hovering nearby took a few steps backward. Warwick whispered something in her ear and then turned toward Madison again. He glanced down at his notes, took a deep breath, and began again where he had left off.

“You contend that my client had a set of keys to your car. If that’s true, how did she get into the garage? Don’t you lock it at night?”

“My wife’s set of keys had a key to the side garage door on it.”

Warwick seemed to be caught off guard; even though it was something that he should have anticipated, he apparently did not. “When you realized that the keys had been missing, didn’t you have the lock changed as a precaution?”

“As I testified earlier, my wife had left me, and it wasn’t until a week after she returned that she realized they were gone. And at that time, my mind was on other things. I didn’t think of it.”

“Don’t you mean that you weren’t concerned because the keys were in fact never stolen?”

Madison clenched his jaw but maintained his demeanor. “No, sir. I meant exactly what I said. My mind was on other things. Given all that I’d been through, that’s perfectly understandable.”

Warwick began walking toward Madison again. “Do you have an alarm in your house, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Does it also protect the garage when you turn it on?”

“Yes.”

“When do you usually arm the alarm?”

“Right before we go to bed.”

“And at what time had you gone to bed the night of the murders?”

“As I told the detectives, I fell asleep while watching television that night, around eleven o’clock.”

“Eleven.”

“So I never set the alarm that night. I awoke around four in the morning when the police came to the door.”

Warwick reached the witness box and leaned on the railing, looking down at Madison. “Do you have a car alarm?”

“Yes, I do. But it doesn’t arm itself unless I lock the car doors. I don’t lock the car when it’s parked in the garage because the garage is alarmed. Besides, there’s a remote arming device on the same keychain as the spare car key. Without the arming device, the key wouldn’t do my wife much good.”

Warwick clenched his jaw, moved to his next question. “You have a dog, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a good watchdog?”

“At times.”

“I hear that Labs are excellent watchdogs.”

“Like with people, generalizations are not always accurate. He’s a good watchdog at times. ”

“And when are those times that he’s particularly effective?”

“When he’s downstairs or on the second floor. I’ve got a big house. If he’s upstairs and asleep, he usually doesn’t hear anything in the garage, which is separate from the house.”

Warwick chuckled and turned to face the jury for a moment. “So you’re saying that because your dog was asleep, he didn’t hear anything. A dog that’s a heavy sleeper,” he sneered mockingly, shaking his head, as if to say, Do you believe this? He turned back to Madison. “Did he awaken you the night of the murders? Had he heard any strange noises?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I don’t recall him waking me up.”

“So what you’re saying, if I may paraphrase-and please stop me if I’m wrong-is that Miss Harding stole your keys, took a chance that your house alarm wasn’t armed, stole your car, ran down these two people, planted the beer in the backseat, returned your car to the garage, again risking the fact that the alarm might be set, and then left? And your dog never heard any of it?”

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. That’s what the police are saying. I’m not saying anything other than what I’ve told the police, yourself, and Mr. Denton.”

Warwick waved a hand at Madison in disgust. “I have nothing further at this time for this witness. We reserve the right to recall him if additional evidence becomes available.”

“Redirect?” the judge asked.

Denton looked up toward Calvino. “Yes, Your Honor. A few questions, if I may.” He stood and walked over to Madison.

“Doctor, did you ever tell Brittany Harding that your home has an alarm?”

“No.”

“Do you have any of those signs or stickers posted anywhere on your house warning anyone of an alarm?”

“No, my wife thought they were ugly.”

“Are there homes in your area that don’t have alarms? Please don’t answer unless you have direct knowledge,” he said, sensing Warwick preparing to pounce like a hungry leopard.

“I have two friends who don’t have alarms. One of them lives across the street. Matt Prisco. The other house belongs to the Fentons, down the block. There may be more, but I don’t personally know of any others.”

“So, unless the person breaking in knows you personally, or knows someone who knows you personally, the burglar wouldn’t know whether or not you have an alarm.”

“That’s correct.”

“Doctor, how many floors are there in your house?”

“Three.”

“Which floor is your bedroom on?”

“The third.”

“Does your dog usually sleep in the bedroom with you?”

“Yes.”

“And was he in the room with you when you fell asleep the night Mr. Silvers and Ms. Pringle were murdered?”

“He was.”

“Doctor, is your garage part of your house? By that I mean, are they part of the same structure?”

“No, the garage is its own separate building. There’s a carport between the garage and the house, and the covering of the carport connects the two buildings.”

“So it seems perfectly reasonable that your dog might not have heard Miss Harding three stories below, in another building, doesn’t it, doctor?”

“Objection!”

“Withdrawn,” Denton said, moving back to his seat. Brittany Harding looked at Warwick, her eyes pleading with him to say something, anything, to help her. But Warwick was busy seething, grinding his teeth, impotently watching his adversary settle into his chair.

Denton shuffled a few papers, then faced the judge.

“The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

Denton raised a glass and tapped it against Hellman’s. “We’re done. Your client did well. Warwick will really have to come up with something powerful to save Harding.”

Hellman swirled his beer, examining the sediment. “I, for one, would like to see her put away, not just for killing those people, but because she’s evil. And I know she’ll never leave Phil alone. She’s not only delusional, she’s obsessed with him, fixated on him. I don’t know how he’s held together as well as he has.”

“Please pass along my apologies again to him. I still feel we did the right thing given our original information. Even though it made a shambles of his life, he was, at that time, the most likely suspect. But, shit, nobody’s perfect. We just missed it.”

Hellman raised his eyebrows. He felt it was a bit flippant the way Denton dismissed the hell that he had put Madison through. Yet, he understood that in fact they were not perfect, and that they were just trying to do a tough job: put the person responsible for a heinous crime behind bars. “His life was a shambles before you got involved. Don’t get me wrong-it got worse after his arrest, but at least you realized the mistake before it was too late.”